The Mysterious Professor Kincaid
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: When an enigmatic wizard takes the DADA post following the War, Hermione knows he's familiar, somehow. When he begins seducing her, she knows she can't resist long, nor is she certain she wants to. And when his true identity is revealed, she knows it's too late—she may've already fallen for this new incarnation of the Dark Lord that shouldn't exist. [Tomione] SPORADIC UPDATES
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes :**

 **1)** Chapter lengths may vary wildly, some might be drabble-length, some might be near 5k words.

 **2)** That Thomas Kincaid is really some [as of yet] unexplainable duplicate of Tom Riddle is not intended as a surprise to the readers. I mean, it's kind of right there in the summary. The storytelling on this fic requires you guys be in the loop on that, much like a film or television show wherein you know who the villain is and what they're up to the entire time, but the whole point is watching the other characters figure it out, and observing if getting involved with these other characters changes the villain's perspective or motives.

 **3)** I'm aware there was an artist by the name of Thomas Kinkade. The similarity is completely unintended. When I was thinking of pseudonyms that would still allow him to be addressed as 'Tom', it was the first thing that popped into mind, and it wouldn't seem to go away, so here we are.

* * *

 **FANCAST :** Henry Cavill as _Tom Riddle/Thomas Kincaid_ ; Danielle Herrington as _Millicent Bullstrode_ ; Maria Amanda as _Luna Lovegood_ (characters not mentioned portrayed by their film actors).

 **DISCLAIMER :** I do not own _Harry Potter,_ or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

"Your resume is impressive," Professor McGonagall said with a nod as she lowered the scroll the Ministry had sent her on the man seated before her—after what they'd all just been through, she was taking no chances. All applicants for posts at Hogwarts were now thoroughly investigated, no matter how clean and upstanding—and, all right, _perhaps_ handsome—they appeared on the surface. "Durmstrang speaks quite highly of your rapport with your students, and your instructional methods. I must admit, however, given your prior institution's history of disapproval of our student body, I am surprised by your choice to come to us rather than seeking another school with . . . _similar_ views."

He granted her a charming smirk and shrugged. "Headmistress, please understand, simply because I was employed there does not mean I shared their views on educating Muggleborns." At the way she arched a suspicious brow, he held up a placating hand. "Perhaps I _once_ did, yes, but I have come to realize that one's blood status does not dictate their ability to comprehend—or command—magic. If Muggleborns are not formally taught how to wield theirs, who knows what could become of them? Any untrained witch or wizard is a threat to themselves and those around them, pure and simple."

The elder witch sat back a bit in her seat, nodding as she held his gaze. He didn't flinch, he barely blinked . . . simply held that charming expression as he stared back at her. She waited for what she knew was an uncomfortably long time, deliberately testing his patience.

His brows slowly crept upward, but that half-smile of his never faded. "Is something the matter, Headmistress?" From the corner of his eye, he noted the space on the wall where the last headmaster's portrait would hang was still blank. Apparently there had been some issue with getting the work completed in time for the start of the new school term. Pity, that.

Minerva gave a small smile of her own in response as she at last shook her head. "I suppose I was simply not expecting such a pragmatic answer."

He chuckled warmly. "I do believe you'll find I excel at practical thinking, Madam."

She looked over the paperwork before her one more time and nodded, again. "Well, I think I've seen all I need to." Actually, they weren't exactly overwhelmed with applicants following the War, and given both the way he presented himself and the positive bent of the documentation in front of her, she really didn't see a way around it. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Kincaid."

He grinned brightly at her words. "Please, call me Tom."

* * *

"Oh, I haven't seen him yet, but Milli did! Bumped into him while Professor Flitwick was giving him a tour of Hogsmeade last week."

Hermione could not believe she heard the voice of Pansy Parkinson coming from the car where she was meeting Ginny, Luna, and Cho. Cho Chang's addition to her social circle was, admittedly, a suprise all its own. They'd never exactly been friends, but when New Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had offered recently graduated students the chance to return and make up for any time they felt hindered by the chaos over the years leading up to the War, Cho had taken it. She had admitted to the other girls that the year following Cedric's death, she'd not really been all there. While Hermione was not pleased with this hardly unexpected revelation, as it simply hammered home the point that Cho's brief relationship with Harry had truly been more about keeping Cedric's memory alive than about liking Harry, she could respect the girl's honesty and the strength the admission—especially to Harry's best friend, and his current girlfriend—must've taken. And of course, she _was_ Hermione Granger, and could definitely appreciate a decision to take a do-over on a botched year of education.

Pansy and Millicent, though . . . . She halted, mid-stride, and shook her head. Actually, she'd been warned of this. She'd thought she'd braced for it . . . but when she'd received a letter over the summer from both Pansy and Millicent Bullstrode offering an olive branch, she hadn't truly believed the Slytherin witches would make good on it. Her friends, aware just how many people they were _more_ familiar with were not returning—Harry, Ron, Seamus, hell, even Draco—had pushed her to accept.

And so she had, grudgingly.

Though, perhaps that would only hold true until she walked into the car, after all, the girls currently in there with them, while labeled blood-traitors during the War, were at _least_ pure-bloods.

"It's true, the new teacher he's . . . ."

Hermione entered just as Milli paused, fanning a hand in front of her face.

"He's . . . I can't believe I'm going to say this about a teacher, but the man is _fit_."

Offering a pained smile to her friends, Hermione stowed her bag and took a seat. "Hello, um, everyone."

Pansy pursed her lips for a long, quiet moment. Silence had fallen in the car, and she didn't think anyone was shocked by that. Sure, she could tell them she wanted to make amends in writing, but after 6 years of tormenting the other girls, she knew she had to actually _show_ that she was trying. Especially after that whole _pointing out Harry Potter to the Dark Lord_ business she was so sure no one was going to let her live down. Score one for people excusing things done in moments of duress, she supposed.

"Hermione," she said in a small voice before nodding and regaining her usual bravado. It would probably be easiest to just go on like this, start with something as simple as girl-talk, and let the wounds heal as they went along. "So, we were talking about the new professor, have you heard?"

Hermione furrowed her brow as she frowned. "The replacement for Slughorn while he's teaching abroad, or the new DADA professor?"

"The second one," Cho said with a grin that was not quite as tense as the air in their car. "What's his name, again?"

Milli uttered a wistful sigh. "Professor Kincaid."

"Ohh." Pansy made a naughty cooing sound. "That has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Something you could imagine murmuring in the dark."

At that, Hermione couldn't help scoffing, though she smiled in spite of herself, but Ginny was the one to speak up. "You _cannot_ be serious. He's a teacher!"

The dark-haired witch shook her head. "It's not like I'm saying let's all line up for turns to shag the bloke, for Merlin's sake." She laughed. "But honestly? So many of the boys worth looking at aren't returning this year. We've got to find our eye-candy somewhere, don't we?"

"I can't believe we're even discussing this," Hermione said with a headshake.

"Okay, um, then . . . ." Luna started, ever the lifesaver. Or so Hermione thought, until the wispy blonde continued speaking. "Your birthday's in a few weeks, we should start planning for what to do!"

She wanted to sink down into her seat as their new companions' eyes lit up. Milli clasped her hands excitedly in front of her while Pansy grinned wickedly.

"Birthday, hmm?" The Slytherin princess tapped her finger against her chin. "I forgot, yeah. You're a year older, aren't you?"

 _Yes, and of all the rotten luck, had I been born on time rather than two weeks late, I'd never have been stuck in classes with you!_ Hermione dug her nails into her palm and centered herself. _Olive branch, Hermione. You accepted, now deal with it._

"Yes, my birthday's on the nineteenth, in fact."

Luna's brows shot up. "You're turning nineteen on the nineteenth? I feel like last year I'd have made a fuss about that."

Ginny snickered as Cho nodded and said, "That's because last year you _would've_."

Pansy waved her hands in a dismissive gesture, even as a calculating gleam sparked in her hazel eyes. "We'll come up with something good, don't you worry."

Frowning, Hermione sat back. "You saying that _is_ what worries me."

To her surprise, when they reached their destination and exited the train, Hermione could honestly say she had a mostly pleasant trip. The air between the group of girls was still notably awkward, but she thought it wasn't anything that couldn't lessen over the year ahead.

* * *

By the time they went down to dinner, Hermione thought she'd had about all she could hear of this Professor Kincaid. Romilda and Parvati had apparently also heard about run-ins with the new teacher, and couldn't seem to say enough on how curious they were about him. Honestly! She just wanted to focus on formally finishing her education. It wasn't even the first day of the new term and they were making her wish she'd opted out of returning to school, just like Harry and Ron.

As they filed into the Great Hall for the first night's feast, Hermione noticed Pansy trying to get her attention. Her shoulders slumping, she turned her full attention on the other witch. "What?" she mouthed.

With a half-grin that was as secretive as it was wicked, Pansy nodded toward the dais at the front of the room.

Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Hermione took her seat. Honestly if this was about the new professor, again . . . though she knew it had to be. As though she was going to look _anywhere_ but at the front of the grand room while Professor McGonagall addressed them all as their Headmistress for the first time.

But then she did look at the long table where the teachers sat facing the room. She registered two new faces among the group. The first was an older gentleman with an unattractively large mustache . . . if _that_ was Professor Kincaid, Hermione had some serious questions about Milli's tastes.

Before she could focus on the other new face, Professor McGonagall stepped up to the podium. A small lump fueled by melancholy and nostalgia formed in Hermione's throat. She hadn't realized how much she missed these first night feasts, with Professor Dumbledore up there. She loved Minerva McGonagall like a second mother, but this was just a sign of how much things had changed.

"Welcome to both new and returning students," the elder witch started with a smile. "I would like to extend my gratitude to those of you who have chosen to come back to us to make up your 7th year. I know after the trying times we've had, many of your classmates no longer felt there is anything left that we can teach them. I am glad to see that did not hold true for all of you. Before we begin The Sorting, I would like to introduce two new members of our teaching staff. Professor Almeida comes to us from Castelobruxo, and will fill in for Professor Slughorn as potions' teacher this year." The man with the mustache stood and took a strangely curt bow before sitting again. "And, coming to us from Durmstrang as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Kincaid."

Hermione swore she could feel a ripple of excitement flow through the Great Hall as the other man stood. Shifting her gaze to him, her breath caught in her throat. There was . . . well, all right, he _was_ quite nice looking. That wealth of dark, gleaming curls, ruggedly angled features, eyes so blue she could see their color from where she sat.

And . . . . She frowned thoughtfully as she stared at him. He looked— _Why_ did he look familiar?

Hermione shook her head, trying to marshal her thoughts. That was when his gaze fixed on hers. She exhaled, feeling the air shiver as it left her lungs and she couldn't seem to tear her attention away from him.

Her skin warmed, such an odd sensation. Nearly as though she could sense him leaning close behind her; as though she could feel his breath whispering across the side of her throat.

How strange, and how awful of her to even imagine such a thing about a bloody teacher! With that reprimand, she managed to finally pull her gaze from him.

Yet, throughout the meal, she remained aware of him there. No matter what she thought, nor what the conversation around her was, she stayed completely cognizant of his presence at the other end of the room.

And perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed whenever she glanced in his direction, she could _swear_ she caught him averting his gaze from her. As though he'd been watching her, and it was only when she looked up at him that he caught himself and turned his attention away.

Yes, yes, only her imagination.

Or, so she thought, until Ginny nudged her. "He keeps glancing over here," she said in a barely audible whisper. "Maybe he recognizes you from the papers, or something!"

Breathing a sigh of relief—why hadn't that occurred to her?—Hermione nodded. "You're probably right." That made perfect sense!

Yet, she realized as she lifted her head once more, managing to catch his gaze, that did not explain why he seemed familiar to her.

This time he did not look away, and she could not help but feel he was _reveling_ in her curiosity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione halted before the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Aside from her dread of Professor Snape during her earlier years, she'd never been quite so unsure about setting foot inside a class before, but now . . . . Knowing Professor Kincaid would be standing at the head of the room, watching the students as they filed in, or even with his back to the room as he prepared the lesson. Oddly, that was just as nerve-rattling a thought, as it would only remind her of the flush-inducing breadth of his shoulders.

Oh, this was ridiculous! She'd tried to push last night's feast out of her mind, when she couldn't escape those strangely familiar blue eyes of his. Ginny's reasoning had almost set her mind at ease over finding his attention on her so often last night, but the conversation that had taken place in the girl's dormitory afterward kept playing through her head.

* * *

"I can't shake this odd impression, like I know him from somewhere," she said, swallowing a yawn as she climbed into bed.

The ginger-haired witch nodded. The returning so-called eighth years were so few, they'd been lumped into the seventh years residences, for the first time giving Hermione a dorm-mate with whom she truly felt comfortable.

"Now that you mention it, I sort of feel the same way." Ginny tapped her finger against her chin. "He does look familiar . . . . Maybe he's been featured in Wizard Weekly or something. He's got the looks for a magazine cover!"

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, feeling a blush in her cheeks. "All right, this is silly, now. We _need_ to get some sleep."

Shaking her head with a snicker, Ginny spoke as she lay down and pulled up her covers. "Yes, Ma'am."

As Hermione rested her head against her pillow and closed her eyes, she tried to let something so frivolous seem perfectly reasonable. After all, they knew nothing of the new professor's life before—or perhaps simply outside of—his profession. Maybe she had simply glimpsed a photograph of him somewhere.

Though she wasn't one to bother with looking at silly magazines—or to fuss over the models featured therein—she let Ginny's explanation make sense. If she didn't, she'd never be able to put out of her mind the way her cheeks had warmed, or how she'd become so acutely aware of the beat of her pulse against her skin, when she'd met his gaze.

* * *

But all that effort seemed wasted as she stood there staring at the open door.

 _Oh, Hermione, you really_ are _being ridiculous!_ Giving herself a shake, she started toward the entryway . . . . Only to be barreled over by a too-tall fourth year rushing toward his own class.

She hit the floor hard, scraping her knee against the stone. Wincing, she looked toward the running student. "Oy!"

"Sorry," the young man hollered over his shoulder as he kept going.

Her frame drooping, she pushed up to stand. The movement delicate, she dusted herself off, avoiding the knee that she could feel was bleeding beneath her robe.

Bloody hell. She'd survived a war, she was not about to miss a class to hide out in the school hospital over a skinned knee. Damn, and just when it seemed like she'd been handed a perfect excuse to avoid walking in there . . . .

She tried to hide a slight limp, her leg throbbing a bit, as she finally stepped through the door.

As she entered, she found most everyone else already in their seats. Professor Kincaid had his head down, his gaze on some scrolls open before him upon the teacher's desk. Just as she relaxed, however, he glanced up.

Feeling frozen where she stood, Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. He flashed a quick, but utterly dazzling grin, and then returned his attention to the scrolls before him.

"Psst, Granger!"

Nearly jumping out of her skin, she pivoted to look toward the voice. Pansy was waving her toward the empty seat beside her.

Nodding, Hermione forced a smile unto her lips. "Right, friends and all that," she said under her breath.

As she took the offered seat, she realized it was a mistake. Not because this was Pansy Parkinson, or anything to do with their long-standing rivalry prior to the War's end. Oh, if _only_. It was because the first thing Pansy did was lean over and start cooing in her ear about how delicious the professor was. Wincing, Hermione could only nod. There was no denying it, even if she didn't want to think on the matter . . . especially with the man in question only meters away from them.

She wasn't certain how she managed, but she avoided looking directly at him the entirety of the class. She focused on the board, and the lesson, perhaps more than she'd ever focused on a single lesson in her life. Of course, she ignored the issue of how nice his voice was.

Dear Lord, where the _hell_ had this man with his perfect hair, gorgeous eyes, and velvety voice come from? She'd imagine nowhere good.

As the class was dismissed, she heard words the lodged her heart in her throat.

"Miss Granger, stay behind a few moments, would you?"

Swallowing hard, she felt her eyes shoot wide. She refrained from glancing at Pansy, as she could already picture the wicked grin that curved the other witch's lips.

Forcing herself to meet Professor Kincaid's expectant gaze, she nodded. "Certainly, Professor."

Sooner than seemed possible, all the fuss and rustle of the other students packing away their things and rushing for the door died away. Hermione found herself alone with him and she had nothing else to fix her attention on.

It was with a strange mix of dread and unfortunate giddiness that she watched him as he locked his gaze on hers. Watched while he stood and rounded his desk, his eyes on hers the entire time as he crossed the classroom.

With every step he took toward her, Hermione could swear she felt more warmth rush to her face. _Bollocks._ There was no way there wasn't an evident blush in her cheeks by the time he drew to a stop directly in front of her.

She tried to speak—to ask why he requested her to stay behind—but the words got stuck in her throat. He tipped his head to one side as he held her gaze, and she didn't know if it was out of curiosity about what she was trying to say, or amusement at her flustered state.

"I wanted to speak with you about a special project, Miss Granger." Regardless of what he actually felt in that moment, he kept his expression neutral as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned his hip against her desk.

She tried not to think anything on his lazy and relaxed demeanor around her at the moment—as though she was already someone around whom he felt comfortable. He could simply be someone who was carefree that way.

Hermione managed to force out a simple, "Oh?" that didn't sound too terribly shaky. _Good girl!_

Tom nodded. "Yes, I understand you've quite a . . . _storied_ war record, shall we say?"

Ah, yes. Ginny was right, after all. He'd clearly read of her exploits when preparing to come here from Durmstrang. "Yes, I suppose you _could_ say that, Sir." She ignored a little thrill that rippled through her at the way one of his eyebrows flicked upward for a split-second as she'd said the word _sir_.

He nodded. "As it turns out, I may be in need of an assistant. Should that become the case, I was considering that _you_ might be an ideal fit for such a task. However, I would need to know what you're truly capable of, Miss Granger."

She furrowed her brow. "Meaning what, exactly?"

The professor grinned. "I would like a paper from you, detailing your efforts last year."

"Pardon?"

He let out a soft little chuckle at that and she pretended she didn't feel as though the breathy sound tickled along her skin. "Not every moment of every day, Miss Granger. I'm asking for an account of the magics employed by, and against, you. I'd like to familiarize myself with your grasp on the mechanics of Dark Magic and the ways which one can defend themselves against it."

Her posture relaxed a bit. That seemed a perfectly logical request from the DADA professor. "Then I suppose you're not interested in how I liberated the dragon at Gringott's and flew away on its back?"

His shoulder shook in a silent laugh. "So that's true, too? You really have had some adventures."

"When, um, when would this assignment be due, Sir?" This time, she had to ignore the way a corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying to hold back a smirk.

"Depends on how long you think you'll need, of course. This isn't exactly a class assignment, after all. And, again, it is only if you _want_ to be my assistant."

The words were tumbling from Hermione lips before she could stop them. "Oh, I think being a teacher's assistant could be quite gratifying."

A full-blown, devastatingly charming grin spread across his lips at how eager she sounded. There was an appeal to the spark of excitement in her chestnut eyes. "And as for how long you think this assignment might take?"

"Oh, not more than a few days, so perhaps I could have it to you next week?"

Tom nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yes, I think that should do nicely. Good day, Miss Granger."

With a nod of her own in response, she stood from her seat . . . . Only to wince and brace her palm against the desk. She'd forgotten entirely about her skinned knee until she had to move her leg again. Now the throbbing sting reminded her of her spill just outside the classroom door.

A troubled expression flickered across his features at her obvious distress. "Miss Granger, are you all right?"

Letting out a hissing breath, she shook her head. Sitting right back down, she spoke as she pulled up the hem of her school robes—she'd not even gotten a look at the injury, herself, yet. "I had a run-in with another student on my way to class."

"Looks a bit more like you had a run-in with the floor," he said, pushing away from the desk, finally.

"Well, yes, I suppose . . . ." The witch's voice trailed off as Tom lowered himself to his knees before her.

He tipped his head side to side as he looked at her bloodied leg. With delicate fingertips, he traced the edge of the rather nasty scrape, seemingly unaware of the shivering breath she let out at his touch.

Before she realized what he was doing, Professor Kincaid slid his hand around the back of her knee and leaned close. He pressed his lips to the wound, the contact lasting a few heart-rattling seconds.

When he pulled back to look up at her, those blue eyes of his widened in surprise at the look of shock on her face.

"You've . . . ." She didn't know how, but she managed to get the words out. "You've got some of my blood on your lip." Hermione wasn't sure why, but she didn't think twice about lifting her hand to wipe the blood from his mouth with the tips of her fingers.

She pretended she wasn't acutely aware of the way he watched her face as she brushed away the crimson.

"Why do you seem surprised?" he asked when her hand fell away. "I was given to understand the kissing of injuries was a common Muggle custom."

"It is." She nodded, swallowing hard. "But, um, that's usually something adults do to comfort children."

His brows shot up in a mildly embarrassed look. "I see." He finally did smirk, then, nodding as his attention dropped to her mouth for the quickest moment—so fast she almost thought she'd imagined it—as he said, "Well, that's certainly a misconception I wouldn't want to exist between us."

As she grappled with his meaning, he climbed to his feet. Slipping a hand around hers, he pulled her to stand and then nodded toward the door. "I do believe I've kept you long enough, Miss Granger. Good day."

She tried to marshal her thoughts, telling herself he couldn't have meant what it sounded like he did. "Good day, Professor Kincaid."

Hermione had to force herself to pull her hand from his. As she turned from him and walked out of the room, she was certain she felt the man watching her the entire way.

No matter how she thought on it as she made her way to Gryffindor Tower, there was only one thing he could possibly have meant by those words.

He didn't consider his other students _adults_ , yet, but he didn't include her in that thinking. He didn't see _her_ as a child . . . .

And he was making sure she knew that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hermione had more trouble focusing on her studies that night than she could recall having in a very long while. It seemed every time she closed her eyes, she again felt the brush of Professor Kincaid's lips against her torn skin, or glimpsed that smirk gracing his lips when she addressed him as 'sir'. Didn't all the students, though?

She didn't dare puzzle over why he might think it intriguing to hear _her_ say it.

Worse, when she tried to sleep that night, she couldn't recall any dreams the next morning, but she had the nagging impression there had been fleeting sensations and images through her mind. The dragging stroke of fingertips along the back of her leg, precisely where he'd touched her. The way her skin had heated and she could feel the beat of her own pulse in her veins when he'd lowered to his knees before her.

By the time she sat down to breakfast the next morning, she was not surprised to think she perhaps felt him watching her, again, from the faculty's table at the front of the Great Hall. No. What surprised her was that she had to fight with herself not to look over. She actually _wanted_ to risk meeting his gaze! Madness.

And where the hell was Ginny this morning, anyway?

Hermione pursed her lips as she wondered what was wrong with her. Certainly the man was dashing, charming, intelligent, nicely built . . . . Wait, where had she been going with this train of thought, exactly? Because the traits she'd just laid out seemed precisely the sort of things capable of leaving nearly any red-blooded young woman a distracted mess.

Perhaps she'd simply thought of herself as too different from 'nearly any' other girl until now.

Perhaps she'd not had this sort of attention from the proper source until now?

Swallowing hard, she set down her fork beside her barely-touched plate. She found her head turning in spite of herself, her gaze determined to find his at the other end of the room.

"What happened yesterday?"

Pansy's sudden question nearly making her jump out of her skin, Hermione forced her attention toward the Slytherin witch's voice. She was grateful for the unaware save, yet not sure how she felt about the sight of Pansy and Milli settling on either side of her at the Gryffindor table.

Her brows drawing upward, Hermione glanced from one to the other. "Are you sure you're allowed to be over here?"

Snorting a chuckle as she rolled her eyes, Pansy waved dismissively before grabbing a plate and serving herself as she answered. "Oh, please. We're eighth years—historical circumstance that's never before happened, and all that. _Let_ them come and stop us. Oh, speaking of . . . ." Turning toward the Ravenclaw table, she shouted across, "Lovegood, Chang, get your bums over here!"

The girls in question exchanged a glance before both shrugging and rising from their places. This must be what it was like to be included in the popular girls clique Hermione'd seen in every angsty teen film, pretty much ever.

Unable to wrap her head around the blatant disregard for school protocol—though, she couldn't recall if it was actually a rule in the strictest sense of the term that students couldn't sit at other house's tables during regular meals—Hermione looked toward the faculty table. Professor McGonagall, if she noticed the situation, didn't seem to find an issue. She carried on a conversation with Sybil Trelawney as they sipped their tea and dug into their own breakfasts.

Though she was about to return her attention to her table while Luna and Cho settled in opposite her and the Slytherin witches, Hermione found herself staring at Professor Kincaid for a few heartbeats. He was chatting away with Professors Flitwick and Almeida rather animatedly. His features were lit by an expression of pure excitement and she couldn't help but wonder what the subject of their discussion might be. Seeing his face so simply enthusiastic like that was—

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she cut her thoughts short and reminded herself to tear her gaze from him.

Yet, just as she was finally about to, those blue eyes snapped toward her. His attention locking on her for a moment, he offered her that same slip of a grin from yesterday and went back to his talk with his colleagues.

At last returning her attention to Pansy, Hermione found the dark-haired girl watching her. Hazel eyes wide, and her perfect little mouth open just a bit, Pansy stared at Hermione.

Pansy had just seen the look that had passed between her and Professor Kincaid. When Hermione wasn't even sure what this was all about, herself. _Fantastic_.

"Well, now." Clearing her throat, Pansy shook her head before getting a grip on herself and smirking in an infuriatingly knowing fashion. "With a look like that, do I really need to ask what happened yesterday?"

Cho's brows shot up as Luna leaned closer across the table. "What happened with what yesterday?"

Milli pouted, the expression strangely a bit too pretty on her. "Apparently Hermione's gone and caught the eye of our new, fit professor."

Hermione thought everyone at the table could hear the hammering of her heart against her ribcage at Milli's words. Sooner than she could respond, however, Pansy was waving a dismissive hand, once more.

"Oh, now, Millicent Bullstrode, don't be jealous. You've been catching the eye of _quite_ enough members of the school's male population as it is, already, yourself."

Sensing some gossip there, Hermione exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the Ravenclaw witches. Pansy was having none of it, again with her dramatic gestures as she waved her hands and looked around at all of them, reading their faces clearly enough.

"Ah, ah. Let's have that first question answered before we move on," she said, sounding oddly authoritative.

Hermione wasn't certain if Pansy was trying to establish a hierarchy, or if she was simply used to being in charge of the social circles she frequented. Whatever it was, the note in her voice drew their collective attention nearly in spite of themselves.

During the discussion, Hermione spotted Neville out of the corner of her eye. He was looking over to the gathering of witches with an arched brow, clearly only now—at Pansy's commanding tone—noticing the motley little coven. Neville who'd had such a _transformative_ growth spurt since War's End that she was more than aware the poor boy was setting hearts aflame across all years and Houses and had precious little idea how to handle the sudden attention.

She knew he didn't think anyone saw how his gaze lingered on Pansy, giving her a brief once-over, before returning his attention to some discussion he was having with Dean.

"Now." Clearing her throat, Pansy turned fully in her seat to face Hermione and clapping excitedly. "About yesterday? What _did_ happen when Professor Baby-blues asked you to stay behind?"

"That's really not a very imaginative nickname, Pansy," the Gryffindor girl said with a frown.

"Oh, just answer the bloody question, woman!"

The other girls shared a laugh over her impatience. Smiling and shaking her head, Hermione held up her hands. "Look, nothing 'happened', he simply told me he was impressed with my war record, and thought that I'd be an ideal candidate should he need a teaching assistant, is all." She choose an explanation that avoided the use of words like 'fit,' 'position,' or 'fill.' Hermione'd spent enough time around Harry and the Brothers Weasley to know how innocent words like that could be deliberately taken for innuendo by the right listener.

And she had the feeling in this instance, Pansy Parkinson was _definitely_ the right listener.

Luna leaned further across the table, the motion somehow seeming to drag Cho right along with her. "What'd you say?"

"I told him it would be great opportunity and I have to hand in a paper about my work with Dark magic last year, so he can know how well I understand the mechanics of defending _against_ Dark magic."

With a suddenly bored roll of her eyes, Pansy sighed. "Good Lord, pair of brainiacs. You two probably deserve each other."

Hermione felt like she was getting away with something when the dark-haired witch seemed to forget about the look between herself and Professor Kincaid. Though, it really didn't help that her own thoughts on the matter once more brought those remembered sensations that had plagued her sleep screaming back into her mind.

"Where's Ginny? Anyone know?" she asked in an effort to distract herself.

Cho nodded. "Something about some early morning Quidditch hubbub. Apparently there's not enough members of last year's teams to even cobble _one_ together from across the Houses, so whatever returning captains or assistant captains are here decided to have a private meet over breakfast to discuss the most efficient way to fill their ranks."

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to recall if Ginny had mentioned anything of the like that morning, but then she'd been so out of it after her not-sleep sleeping last night, perhaps they'd talked about it? But then perhaps a hippogriff had come stomping through their dorm room, too. Who knew? She suddenly realized her morning had been a bit of a blur. She didn't quite recall the details of how she got from her bed down here to the Great Hall.

"Oh!"

Milli's voice in Hermione's ear, all sunshine and perk, now, made her jump. "Let's talk about Hermione's birthday! You said it's the 19th, didn't you, Luna?"

"Yes! Ohhh, that's a Saturday! Perfect night for a party!"

The witches seated around her all made excited noises—inadvertently drawing the attention of everyone around them for a moment—and Hermione could only gape about at her strange, new group of friends. "Oh, really? A party? I don't know. I'm not really one much to—"

"Shhh." Pansy said, lacking for all personal space as she pressed her hand over Hermione's mouth. "It's perfect! We can have it in the Slytherin dungeons. It's bigger than the other House's common rooms. We can invite _everyone_ , and Fire Whiskey, pumpkin ale, all manner of cakes. We're doing it."

Wincing, Hermione tried again, her words muffled behind Pansy's hand. "Oh, no. I really don't think—"

"We're doing it."

Shoulder slumping, Hermione rolled her eyes as she nodded. Cakes and alcohol without classes to wake up and rush to the next morning. Who was she to question? It might be fun.

Surprising Hermione by leaning close to her, Pansy whispered in her ear, "And, do me a favor? See you drag Longbottom with you that night, hmm?"

Pansy shifted back again, offering a conspiratorial wink before returning her attention to her breakfast.

Blinking wide-eyed at the Slytherin witch, Hermione couldn't help glancing from her, to the wizard in question, and back. Again, she caught Neville eyeing Pansy.

Should she tell her about those looks?

Smirking, Hermione picked up her fork and went back to her own meal, too. She'd drag Neville with her, as requested, and let these two sort things out for themselves.

* * *

The next several days, Hermione somehow managed to avoid paying too much attention to Professor Kincaid. The problem was more that she was _so_ cognizant of how hard she was working to avoid paying attention to him that it was almost the same thing.

She toiled away on her unofficial assignment, deciding to leave out mention of the Horcruxes. If he knew about them, he was welcome to ask her why she left them out. And he if truly understood what a dangerous force Voldemort had been, he would appreciate her caution and reticence on the matter.

All going smoothly, she thought, until a week to the day of his initial request. Her paper still wasn't quite ready. Being Hermione Granger meant many things . . . . And one of those things was going over every word to make certain it was the best possible choice. Combing every recorded instance to assure herself she'd described things both as clearly and as accurately as she could rightly recall.

Truth be told, the account did feel a bit empty when leaving out the Horcrux Hunt, but her gut told her to guard that information until the professor proved to her he could be trusted. After all, the DADA professors of Hogwarts didn't exactly have the best track record.

Perhaps a week and a half had passed of her toiling away and deliberately not looking at him, not speaking to him beyond answering lesson-related questions, trying not to think about him. Which begged the question, why the hell was she bothering at all? How could she expect to function in a close role like his teaching assistant if she was afraid to look at him while they were in the same room?

As she left the library that evening—kicked out by Madam Pince, just like the good old days—she had to halt in the corridor, scrambling to put everything away in her bag. At least the immediate vicinity was empty, preventing anyone from seeing her make a fool of herself as she fought with her own books and scrolls.

Several items missed the opening of her bag, entirely, and tumbled to the floor. _Well, if it's not me, it's my things. Of bloody course_ , she thought, laughing at herself despite her sour tone.

As she was about to bend to pick them up, she heard a voice. She never imagined before now that she could dread a lovely sound, yet there it was as Professor Kincaid said, "Let me."

Startled—she'd been so sure she was alone in the corridor, when had he gotten here?—she only watched him lower to one knee before her to pick up her fallen items. Lifting his head, he stayed as he was as he met her gaze.

"I will say, we seem to do this too often Miss Granger."

Realizing he was joking with her, she forced a smile, aware it resulted in an awkward expression. The last thing she needed was to imagine this man on his knees before her _more_ often.

He rose to his feet, holding her book and scrolls out to her, his eyes still locked with hers. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Miss Granger?" he asked when she hesitated to take them, apparently frozen on the spot.

Her brows shot upward. "Hmm? No, no. Professor, I'm sorry, it's, um, it's me, I'm just . . . I'm sorry, no," was all she really managed, no true explanation coming to her.

Professor Kincaid mirrored her expression. "Yes, and that sounded genuine and not at all awkward."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. The moment helped ease her anxiety and she found herself reaching to take her things from his hands. "Thank you, sir."

He smirked, biting his lip—and she told herself her heart absolutely did not stammer at the sight, just as she told herself she didn't notice the brush of his fingers against hers—and nodded. "You're welcome. Is it too much to hope that all this work your doing might be for that assignment we discussed."

"Oh!" She fished one of the scrolls from her small pile and held it right back out to him. "I know it took longer than I said it would. I was planning to hand it in during class tomorrow, but I suppose now's as good a time as any. I just . . . wanted it to be perfect."

Taking the scroll, he eyed it as he nodded. "I'm sure it will be. Can't really help yourself but be perfect, can you?"

"I—" She cut herself off, uncertain if that was a compliment or an insult. "I try to be, I mean, at least with my studies."

Meeting her gaze once more, he flicked one eyebrow upward as he said, "Only when it comes to your studies?"

Had he moved closer? When had he moved closer? She couldn't be sure, but he must've, now that she had to tip her head back a little to keep steady eye contact with him.

"I'm not . . . ." Lord, why was it so hot in this bloody corridor? Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, she could swear she felt her face tingling. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

He tipped his head to one side just a bit, his blue eyes seeming just a little hazy as they searched hers. "You wouldn't would you? That's sort of what I mean."

Her pulse was racing and her breath came up short as it seemed he was leaning down toward her. "Truly perfect people," he said, the warmth of his own breath as he spoke brushing against her skin, "don't _try,_ Miss Granger. They simply are."

Just when wasn't sure if she was feeling hope or dread that it seemed he might lean closer, still, and press his lips to hers, he pulled back. She gave herself a shake as he retreated a step, putting space between them.

Waving the scroll at her, he said, "See you in class tomorrow, Miss Granger. With any luck, I'll have finished my reading by then, and have an idea what kind of assistant you might be."

She forced a gulp down her throat as she watched him turn on his heel and start back down the corridor. She didn't even know when she'd stopped fighting with herself about following the set of his shoulders with her gaze as he walked.

But now, as she found herself alone, once more, she forced her breathing to steady and pressed her palm over her heart. Shaking her head at no one in particular, she whispered, "I'll be the kind who fancies her boss, apparently."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Enough of this, already!" Pansy had absolutely had it with Hermione's recent squirrely demeanor. She'd even take back their former dynamic of sniping at one another rather than this twitchy witch who seemed to not have anything more to contribute to conversations than nods and 'hmm's. Her birthday party was already tomorrow, and Hermione Granger—typically the most prepared person Pansy'd ever met, and not one to shy away from a bit of work, unlike Pansy herself—had done exactly squat to help them plan when it was _for_ her. " _What_ has gotten into you, Granger?"

Hermione's lips tugged uncertainly to the left as she glanced about. Pansy had pulled her off to one side of the corridor as they'd left class. Days had passed since Professor Kincaid had taken her scrollwork from her, yet he'd not made a peep about whether or not he found her acceptable to be his assistant. She tried telling herself it was simply that he was a busy man and it was likely things had come up that had more weight than this matter. However, there was a niggling impression in the back of her mind that just maybe he was making her wait for his answer the way she'd made him wait for her to hand in the assignment in the first place.

Could the delay really have so petty a reason? Oh, certainly it could! Especially if he viewed her less as one of his students and more a potential subordinate. But his silence—she'd dare say he was even going so far as to ignore her—was making her edgy. Worse? It was causing their last interaction that evening in the otherwise abandoned corridor outside the library to play in her mind over and over again. How close he'd stood, the look in his eyes as he'd stared down at her, the feel of his breath ghosting over her skin . . . .

How he'd said that she was—

"Dammit, woman! Are you even listening to—?"

"He called me perfect." Immediately Hermione's eyes widened, and she gaped at Pansy. She hadn't meant for the words of her interrupted thought to come tumbling out, yet there they were.

And she certainly hadn't meant for those words to come out anywhere Pansy could hear them.

It took Pansy a second or two of holding the other witch's gaze before she reacted. "I'm sorry, who said you were perfect? And what's it got to do with any—?" Her question was abruptly cut off as Hermione grabbed her wrist and pulled her further along the corridor, putting them in a shadowy corner.

Unable to help herself, Pansy flicked a brow upward, smirking. "Ooh, are we spies now?"

"Pansy, please," Hermione whispered in a tone that managed to be both miserable and pleading. She couldn't believe she was going to continue—that she was going to confide this in Pansy Parkinson, of _all_ people—but she knew, psychologically, it was easier to confide secrets to strangers than it was to friends. In that aspect, Pansy was the perfect person, since they'd only known one another as enemies up until a few weeks ago, so learning who she was as a friend was nearly like getting to know an entirely separate person. She was both a stranger and a friend.

After a moment of arguing with herself, Hermione decided the best way to start was with a time-honored tradition of friendship. The vow of secrecy. "I am going to tell you something, but you have to _swear_ it'll stay between us. And while I'm hardly going to make you swear an Unbreakable, do keep in mind that I can make you pay if you breathe a word to anyone about this."

"Oh, now we're getting somewhere! This has got to be good." Pansy rubbed her hands together and grinned. She wasn't sure if she _could_ keep a secret, but if she didn't give her word, she'd never know what secret Granger was carting around in that massive brain of hers. And, sure, there was the whole 'being friends' thing that meant she had to at least try to keep Hermione's confidence. "I swear, whatever you tell me right now will go no further."

God, Hermione was nervous about speaking any of it aloud, but she had to tell someone and Pansy seemed the least likely to judge her for any of it—in fact, the Slytherin witch would more likely clap her on the back whilst beaming proudly. Exhaling a weighted sigh and shaking out her hands, she nodded to herself and then started her explanation. Everything from the way Professor Kincaid had watched her that first night at the welcome feast, to the kiss on her bleeding knee and his statement about not wanting her to think he viewed her as a child, to that moment when it seemed he might kiss her in the corridor outside the library.

When she finished, Hermione all but collapsed back against the wall behind her, feeling strangely raw and worn out just from talking about it.

Her hazel eyes wide, Pansy merely stood there. She held Hermione's gaze in silence, appearing to gauge whether or not the other young woman was being wholly honest about her situation.

The mix of guilt and terror in Hermione Granger's face—along with the blush flaring in her cheeks and the tone of giddiness that had edged her whispered voice as she talked about the professor's touch, and perhaps more importantly the way she felt in the wake of the professor's touch—spoke _volumes_ all on its own.

Pansy wanted to react calmly to this information—Hermione Granger in some sort of flirtation with a professor? The idea was scandalous, and utterly delicious and Pansy was in complete envy—to remain mature. To not make Granger regret confiding in her.

Instead, she found herself screeching. "Oh my God, are you serious? Of course you're serious! I can't believe this! Hermione Granger, you—" Hermione's hand slapping down over Pansy's mouth cut of her shrill words.

"Are you insane?" the brown-eyed witch asked in a terrified whisper. " _No one_ can hear about this!"

Pansy's shoulders slumped and she gripped her fingers around Hermione's to pry them from her lips. "I wasn't going to say the _actual_ thing, you know," she whispered back. "This is just . . . just . . . . Merlin's beard, I don't believe it. You've honestly rendered me speechless."

"I'm not sure I believe it, either." Hermione arched a brow, wary as she watched the other girl's expression.

"You should talk to him."

And now Hermione's brows disappeared into her hair. "I beg your pardon?"

Shaking her head, Pansy made a deliberate show of rolling her eyes. "I mean about the assignment you handed in, not the . . . ." She spared a moment to glance around, ensuring no one was near enough to overhear them. "Not the near-kissy-face. You can legitimately ask him about what he thought of it and quietly gauge how he reacts to your presence."

"Oh." Hermione nodded, surprised. "You make a good point."

The Slytherin witch nodded back, winking mischievously. "I know. So . . . about your party? Weasley invited your House, yeah?"

Pansy's question reminded Hermione rather abruptly of her request. "You mean a very specific member of our House, don't you?"

Shrugging, Pansy looked bored as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. "Maybe. But you should really get back to the DADA classroom. Class has only been over for a few minutes. If you're lucky, you might still catch Professor Broad Shoulders."

"Can you ever talk about him without mentioning one of his many admirable physical traits, Pansy?" First it was Baby Blues, then it was Nice Bum, she was pretty sure there had even been a Walks with a Swagger in there at some point.

"I _can_ , I simply choose not to," Pansy answered with another wink. "Now, off you go."

Nodding firmly, Hermione mustered up her courage and started back in the direction of the second floor classroom.

And completely bypassed it to keep heading up the staircase, instead bolting to Gryffindor Tower and—for lack of a better term—hiding from Professor Baby Blues-Broad Shoulders-Nice Bum—Walks with a Swagger. Monday her assignment would still be a mystery and she could be brave and speak to him about it _then._

* * *

"You're joking," Neville said, his jaw hanging open.

Hermione hadn't wanted to spill the beans, but he'd profusely apologized to her as he said he didn't feel like going to a party, even if it was for her birthday. She suspected—given the looks she'd noticed him giving Pansy of late—that he thought going to a party in the Slytherin Dungeons would mean watching the hazel-eyed witch flirting with other wizards. The only way she could convince him to accompany her was by telling him the truth.

"I would never joke about something like this, Neville." She reached out, giving his shoulder an encouraging pat. "I've seen the way she's been eyeing you lately. You _know_ you've gotten rather fit; you should be proud and accept that women are going to look at you differently now."

His brows pinched together and he seemed to lose a little of his height as he weighed her words. "So, it's just about my looks, then?" Despite his affronted tone, he was glad his friendship with Hermione was comfortable enough that she could be so open with him.

"Well, what is it that keeps you looking at her when you think no one is paying attention? Because you and I both know she'd always been awful to you before this year."

Neville's head tipped back and he glared daggers at the ceiling. "You've a point."

She slipped her arm around his elbow and started pulling him toward the portrait exit of Gryffindor Tower. "See? You both like the same thing about each other. It may seem shallow, but it doesn't have to be anything more than a place to start."

"Fine," he said, grousing. "But I'm only going because it's your birthday."

Hermione folded her lips on a snicker, knowing full-well that five minutes ago, that it was her birthday hadn't quite been reason enough to get him to go.

* * *

"Never thought I'd see the day," Ginny said, giggling as she sipped a bit of spiked butter beer.

Hermione followed the ginger-haired witch's attention. She had noticed Neville and Pansy talking in a corner off by themselves.

The birthday girl shrugged. "I might've been forced to play matchmaker."

"That was your doing?"

Hermione shrugged, laughing. "They kind of both hinted at it. It was only on me to get Neville down here."

Ginny nodded. She tugged Hermione to fall into one of the cushy, green velvet armchairs with her. "Are you okay, 'Mione? You've seemed off lately."

Oddly, even though she'd not spoken to Professor Kincaid, Hermione had felt a little calmer, a little more rational, in the wake of her little soul-bearing session with Pansy. "I'm good, yeah. Something was troubling me, but it's better now."

"Good, because your birthday should be a day of peace!"

Again Hermione laughed. "You do realize I wasn't born on Christmas, yes?"

"Pfft," the mildly inebriated redhead sputtered the sound. "Avnyone's birthday should be a day of peace."

"Did you mean to say 'everyone' or 'anyone'?"

Ginny's face pinched in question. "Would it make a difference?"

Hermione thought over the statement. "No, actually."

"Then I meant both!"

A tall, familiar dark-haired figure moved along down one of the corridors shooting off from the common room, catching Hermione's eye. Professor Kincaid. Her heart skipped a beat before she got it under control.

Looking about—she spotted Luna and Cho giggling together by the food, Lord only knew where the hell Milli had gotten to, and with whom—she waved her friends over as she turned an apologetic look on Ginny. She was going to talk to that man about her damn assignment and get it over with. It was her birthday, she shouldn't have to wake up tomorrow still biting her nails and waiting around for him to decide when he'd give her an answer, dammit!

"Can you two keep Ginny company a bit? I have to go talk to someone."

"Sure!" the Ravenclaw witches said in unison.

As Hermione pried herself out of the seat, she realized this might not be the best idea. Certainly, she was a tiny bit tipsy herself, but Cho and Luna seemed a bit more than Ginny was. However, as the other two fell and shifted and squirmed to fit into the seat with Ginny, she considered that they couldn't exactly go anywhere. It wasn't like a Muggle party, where she'd have to worry they might wander out while intoxicated and end up playing in traffic or propositioning a police officer, or something.

"Just . . . try not to get yourselves in trouble."

"You have our word, Ma'am!" Luna hiccupped adorably between the last two words of her declaration and Hermione couldn't help laughing as she excused herself to hurry off down that corridor.

She was well aware this could be a mistake. Were his quarters along this passage somewhere? She had thought the teachers had rooms adjacent to their classrooms, which should mean his quarters were closer to the DADA classroom, two floors above their heads. What, then, was he doing down here?

It seemed the corridor was empty. She could hear her footfalls echoing off the walls as the sounds of the party grew distant and muffled. Perhaps she'd been wrong?

But then she noticed a door standing open further along.

Approaching slow, she called out, "Professor?" If she were wrong, she could play it off that she thought she'd seen _any_ of the faculty members and simply acted curious as to what they were up to at this time of night. Now that she thought on it, she was curious about that very thing, aside from her own agenda in seeking out Professor Kincaid.

She heard movement from within and couldn't help ducking her head around the door to peek inside. "Professor?" she called again as she found herself looking into a storage room.

His back was to her as he rooted about for something on the shelves before him. "Hmm?" he answered, not looking around.

Well, that was just fine, then. Squaring her shoulders she drew in a breath. Talking to him—or perhaps at him, more appropriately—would probably be easier if she could be spared looking up into his blushingly perfect features.

"Professor, I need to speak with you about—"

And then he turned and met her gaze. His brows were pinched together and his expression was open, the look of someone patiently waiting. The words died on her lips.

"Miss Granger? Are you all right?"

"Uhhhhh . . . ." She winced, feeling like an idiot now for stopping so suddenly. "Yes, yes, I am. I just wanted to . . . wanted to know why you have yet to get back to me about what you thought of my paper."

The pinch between his dark, arched brows tightened as he shook his head at her. "Miss Granger, it's the weekend. And, as I understand it, isn't today your birthday? That party out there is for you, yes?"

Her jaw dropped a little as she scrambled to form an answer. "Well, yes, but—"

"Then can't it wait until Monday?"

She glanced behind him, seeing that he'd been sorting through potions ingredients. This room must serve as backup supply for the main potions stores. She supposed that made sense, Dark Arts Defense did often employ use of potions, which was why Professor Snape had so excelled at both. "So, your opinion is that, because it's the weekend, work can wait?"

His broad shoulders— _thanks for pointing that out, Pansy_ —sloped a little as he noted the direction of her gaze. "That's different. I'm a teacher."

"Yes, and I'm _supposed_ to be a teacher's assistant, except that the teacher I'm supposed to be assisting has yet to let me know whether or not he finds me an acceptable candidate for the post!"

At the fire in her voice, which—according to her expression—startled her, as well, a surprised chuckle erupted from him. What she thought just might be an abashed grin crossed his lips. "I must confess, Miss Granger, that I was _perhaps_ keeping my decision to myself longer than was necessary in recompense for you making me wait so long on the assignment in the first place."

Chestnut eyes widening in shock, she shook her head. "I knew it! I told myself a professor wouldn't be so petty."

Professor Kincaid smirked, spreading his hands. "I am only human, and . . . it's not an exaggeration to tell you that my feelings were hurt."

She was taken aback at his statement. "Really?"

"Yes, but it is your birthday, and I don't wish to make you spend it worrying about someone other than yourself. So, we'll consider all things forgiven and you'll accept the post starting Monday?"

"S—sure." Hermione swallowed hard, nodding. "Well, I'd, um, I'd better get back, then."

Yet, she had trouble backing up from the room. Trouble turning on her heel to start away from him.

"Before you go," he said, when it seemed she finally managed to unstick her feet from the floor, causing her to snap right back around. "If you'd accept a small present, perhaps? Seeing as it is your birthday. How old are you? Twelve?"

The witch almost gave into an affronted gasp, until she noted the glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes. "You're terrible. You know how old I am."

"Oh, yes. Right. Nineteen, practically an old woman."

In spite of herself, she uttered a scoffing sound before laughing. "I only stayed a moment longer because you said something about a present. If you're only going to poke fun at me, I'd just as soon leave, thanks very much."

"Wait, wait." He held up his hand, in a placating gesture. "I was serious. I would like to give you something to mark the day."

Arching her brow, she folded her arms under her breasts and merely stared up at him. She was just barely refraining from tapping her foot impatiently. When had she gone from being just-this-side of terrified to speak to the man to this oddly comfortable to-and-fro with him?

Perhaps his admission that his reasoning for not giving her an answer about the post was simply pettiness as she'd suspected—that he was, indeed, only human—had her feeling more equal to him, now. Less that he was somehow superior to her. She revered her teachers, and that had put her at a disadvantage when dealing with him until now.

 _Now_ that he'd openly stated that he was a flawed creature, not immune to acting out of his own wounded pride, she could let him topple down off that pedestal.

Drawing his wand, he gave the swish-and-flick with which she was so familiar, and in his other hand, a perfect rose appeared.

She gasped, watching as he closed his fingers around the stem and held it out to her in offering. "Was that actual magic, or Muggle sleight-of-hand?"

"As I understand it, were it Muggle illusion, I would be forbidden from revealing it, as that might give you some idea of how I did it." He nodded. "Take it."

"All right." Hermione willed her hand not to shake as she reached out. She might feel more steady and even with him now, but she was still a bit nervous about being alone with him like this for more obvious, more _base_ reasons.

Her fingers brushed his as she gripped the stem. She expected he would let go, but his gaze dropped to their touching hands. The witch told herself she must be imagining the spots of color blooming in his cheeks as he then fixed his attention on her face.

"Sir?" Her voice slipped out in a breathless whisper.

Brushing his curled fingers of his free hand against her jaw, he said, "So strange how different it sounds when you're the one addressing me so."

She could feel her lids sweeping downward in a slow, drowsy blink as she tried to understand what he could mean by that. She'd noticed it before, of course, his reaction to her use of the term, but still she wasn't certain why he responded to _her_ saying it the way he did.

"But perhaps for . . . for just now," he went on, shaking his head, his expression mildly mystified, "you could call me Tom?"

Hermione was cognizant that he was leaning closer, cognizant that she was drifting to meet him. "I really don't think that's wise."

"Only this once," he said, lifting his thumb to trace her bottom lip.

She nodded, uncertain why she was letting this happen—why either of them were letting this happen, they were both perfectly rational people who knew better! "Then, only this once, Tom."

Another smirk curved Tom's lips before his mouth covered hers.


End file.
